Living like Smoke
by GeishaGirl93
Summary: She refuses to fade away. Nerissa/Faith


Disclaimer: I don't own The Wolf Among Us.  
A/N: Awesome game, awesome characters, awesome potential; joining the fandom a little late, but I have no regrets. Pretty sure I'm going to do Snow/Holly next but that's not important right now. This fic is going with the theory that Faith was actually Nerissa the entire time so it's like a back-story kind of fic.

Title: Living like Smoke  
Summary: She refuses to fade away.  
Pairing(s): Faith/Nerissa  
Warning(s): femslash, mention of murder,

* * *

Faith loves Lawrence. She loves him enough to do shitty things with shitty people. She loves him enough to make deals with flesh-and-blood devils. She loves him enough to keep only the important secrets.

Faith _loves_ Lawrence.

And then there are days she hates him.

When the air conditioning stops working, when the water goes cold in the middle of a shower, when a roach the size of her ring finger skitters across the floor, when there are no clean dishes, when the food smells rancid like death, when the refrigerator is empty and hollow are the days she hates him. When she hates him the most are the days when making love becomes a chore.

It's not the best life, not the life she wanted—not even close to the life she had—but it's a life. It's a _life_. It's _her_ _life_.

It hurts like hell when she wakes up one night next to a stranger and realizes the life was no longer hers. It hurts even worse when she realizes it may never have been hers to begin with.

* * *

On a slow business day, Nerissa comes into Faith's room bringing the smell of sea and home with her. When Faith asks her what happened, she doesn't say anything—just curls up at the foot of Faith's bed, one leg drawn up, the other dangling above the floor, hair spilling around her face in auburn waves. Faith checks her dress for signs of blood and dirt, but it's clean and white. Faith smiles at the irony.

Nerissa stares at Faith's toes like they hold the answer to all their problems. She tells Faith's feet, "We should leave."

Faith laughs a little because this is a conversation they've had before. It's always gone the same way. She says, "And where would we go?" She doesn't want to sound cruel, but it comes out a little bitter, a little tired and a little fed up.

Nerissa shrugs, says to Faith's leg, "We could go to the sea.'

Faith laughs again because oh the fucking irony. She says, "And how would we get there?"

"We'd take the bus," Nerissa says and tucks a wayward strand of into the abundance of hair flowing from her head. "We'd take the bus," she says again, stronger this time.

Faith stands up and stretches to prevent herself from toying with the notion that the idea—crazy as it sounds—has some backbone. She moves to her dresser, begins to play with makeup to keep herself busy.

"And how would we pay?" Faith asks as she smears some red number on her lips.

Faith can see Nerissa's eyes on her spine in the mirror, tracing every knob and bone. She says, "We'll save up the money we get from work. If we do that, at the rate we work, we could get out of here in no time."

Faith laughs because it's so crazy it just might work, but it's too good to be true. Instead, she picks up a fingernail polish and says, "Let me paint your fingernails. The coat I gave you a few weeks ago is starting to chip."

Nerissa doesn't relent. She looks at Faith's face, at the faded bruise on her cheekbone, and she says, "We could do it, and you know we could."

Faith swallows and takes Nerissa's hand. Nerissa startles, Faith startles and their both reliving long nights accented by a plethora of awful smells, a creaking mattress and bruises. Stress has no preference. It turns out anything can be a trigger, even something as simple as grounding your big-dreamer friend.

Nerissa has a delicate wrist, and the bones rub against Faith's hand. She could squeeze and there would be a bruise. The thought makes Faith's mouth dryer than it's ever been, and she releases Nerissa's wrist to cradle in her palm as if were weight a melon. Nerissa's fingers are longer than Faith's, thinner. Nerissa's bones are so beautiful it's almost impossible how beautiful they are.

(Then again, they're whole existence is considered an impossible by mundy standards.)

The polish is this off-shade of purple that makes Nerissa's fingernails look like they've been squeezed until they turned purple. It makes the skin around the nails paler, like they've been bleached of what little color they had.

Nerissa says, "I like the color."

Faith looks up, and Nerissa smiles a little, a tiny quirk of her chapped lips. She says, "I really like the color."

And Faith can't help but bite her lip because Nerissa's got that look on her face, the one that implies she's apologizing for doing something wrong even when she hasn't done a damn thing.

Faith says, "It looks good."

They don't talk about running away anymore and instead talk about ways to cover bruises and hide split lips.

* * *

Lawrence is sleeping when Faith gets home. Sprawled out across the couch, shirtless, long limbs spilling over the sides, he looks emaciated and helpless. He reminds Faith of the starving children on the "Save Africa" commercials. There's a bottle of beer on the floor, sticky around the rim and ripe with the smell of stale beer. Faith can smell it on Lawrence's breath when she leans in to kiss him.

He opens his eyes, liquid-soft and dark, and he slurs, "Hey, babe. When did you get home?"

Faith tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. It feels greasy and slick between her fingers. "A few minutes ago. When was the last time you took a shower?"

Lawrence stretches, his sallow skin stretched tight across his ribs. "The water pressure's shit again."

Faith hums and kisses his neck, his shoulder. Lawrence wraps his arms around her shoulder, and each bone feels like a pointed dagger. His breath is sour and hot against her temple. She thinks, _How could I leave him now? How could I leave us like this?_

Making love is a chore nowadays. It's all work and effort. Only one of them gets off. Lawrence falls asleep with come cooling on his chest.

Faith kisses him again and tries not to cringe at the taste of his breath.

* * *

"It's so weird," Nerissa says, a cigarette dangling from between her gloss-slick lips. "I think I'm content now."

Faith looks up from her fingernails, the paint brush poised in her hand like a pen. She says, "_What _did you just say?"

Nerissa takes a lazy pull off the cigarette and shrugs. "I didn't say I was happy. I just said I'm content."

Faith makes a noise, a half-choking half-laughing sound. She says, "What happened to running away?"

"I still want to," Nerissa says spreading out in a chair, long legs dripping over one arm, hair spilling over the other. She says around the cigarette, "I still want to, but I won't be heartbroken if I don't. I'll be sad, but it'll just be like everything else that's happened so far. I'll grieve a little and move on."

The smoke plumes out of Nerissa's mouth, curls around her like something loving and then floats up and up into the ceiling. "I'll continue to dream," Nerissa says, her eyes tracing the smoking—following it up and up. "I'll continue to dream that I'm like smoke."

Faith wants to tell her that smoke is forgotten, smoke is waved away. That living life like smoke is no way to live.

But that would be redundant because Faith hasn't lived in a very long time.

* * *

The Crooked Man is the boogeyman that everyone knows is real. He can't hide the smell of death underneath upper crust when Faith comes home and sees him sitting in Lawrence's chair, she pulls out the gun on reflex, points it and tries to stop the trembling in her fingers.

The Crooked Man gives his crooked smile and says, "There's no need for that, my dear."

She doesn't lower the gun, grits her teeth at the trembling that crawls up her arm and hisses, "What the _fuck _are _you _doing here?"

The Crooked Man looks around the apartment, and something unreadable worms across his face. It's not disgust, but it's not pity, and it's not regret. He reminds Faith of a vicious child that's just found the perfect target.

Looking at the wall, the Crooked Man says, "Just checking up on things."

"I said I'd get it," Faith says, her voice quaking and heart hammering against her ribs. "I told you I'd get it."

"And I have no doubt that you will," The Crooked Man rises, his spidery shadow falling across the table and spreading up towards Faith's feet. "I just came to make sure that everything is going alright."

"Everything's fine," Faith says and the gun lowers enough to ensure a clear shot at the Crooked Man's chest. "Now get _out _of my apartment."

The Crooked Man leaves in a dramatic flash of coattail and sly head-turning. The gun clatters to the floor, and Faith cries until her chest and throat ache.

Lawrence comes home from a fruitless job interview, takes in Faith's puffy eyes, the resonating shakes that skirt through her fingers and gathers her up in his arms. He smells clean, but a bit of grim clings to his skin like a faint cologne.

"What happened?" Lawrence asks. "What happened, baby?"

Faith cries harder because a baby is what she feels like—small, helpless, shitting on herself and unable to clean up the mess. She cries until everything feels empty and thinks of the ocean, of Nerissa and her by the sea.

* * *

She tells Nerissa, "The Crooked Man came to the apartment yesterday."

Nerissa looks up and her eyes are too bright and too wide. She goes rigid and her lips drain of color. She says, "What did he want?"

"To check on things," Faith says as she removes her heeled shoes and rubs and the aching soles. "At least that's what he said."

Nerissa laughs, high pitched and teetering on wild. She leans against the door, folds her arms and says, "That's a new one. 'Checking up on things,' that's fucking good."

Faith flexes her foot and falls back on her bed, curls up so that her face is buried in the sheets. The cotton tastes stale and damp in her mouth. She hears Nerissa moving, her feet soft and muffled by the plush carpet. Nerissa drapes her body over Faith, and Faith takes in the smell of her hair. It smells really clean, cleaner than Lawrence's skin. It smells like salt and sand and beaches long gone. She smells like old magic, and Faith turns her head to press her nose into the waves of hair spilling from Nerissa's head.

Nerissa's slim arms wrap around Faith and hold her close. Faith can feel the warmth of Nerissa's breasts on her back. Nerissa's says, "It's okay. It's going to be _okay_, Faith. I've got you."

Faith says, "I'm so tired. I'm _so tired_, Nerissa."

"I know," Nerissa murmurs and Faith can smell her sweet breath. "_I know_. I am, too."

"That house by the sea is looking pretty affordable right now."

Nerissa laughs and it's much prettier than her earlier one, calming in a way that makes Faith feel like she's being rocked by the sound of Nerissa's voice.

"I want you to sing for me one day," Faith says and Nerissa's hair cling to her tongue. "I want you to sing for me."

"I will," Nerissa says and her arms tighten. "I promise."

Faith chuckles because they both know how horrible they are about keeping promises.

* * *

It's no big secret that men like to role play; they all have a fantasy that makes them come and quake like a sudden earthquake. Faith's done her share: nurse, doctor, nun, police woman, even an animal here and there. What _is_ a big secret is that Ichabod Crane likes to role play.

It was an accident coming across the picture. She was just going to borrow some eyeshadow, and the picture had been sitting there on the desk: Lily's half-transformed face in forced stillness, her hands tucked underneath her shrinking breasts, Snow White's lips parted to accept the curled tongue of Crane, his emaciated hand doing God-only-knew-what underneath the pink dress.

It's in Faith's underwear drawer now.

She had thought about leaving the picture, just going on and forgetting about Ichabod's spidery body caging Lily's prone, transformed frame; but just as she was about to leave the room, she thought of the sea and Nerissa. She thought about the house, the taste of the salt in the air, she thought about the ruin of the Crooked Man, about his face, his reaction, about freedom and what it would taste like on the warm air.

She'd taken the picture.

She'd taken it.

"Now or never," she told the photograph. "It's now or fucking never."

* * *

Nerissa is shaking, and she sounds like she's on the verge of crying when she says, "You have to put it back. You have to put it back _right fucking now_."

Faith blinks, incredulous and flash-frozen. She says, "No. There's no way you're being serious right now."

Nerissa glances around and leans in close, so close Faith can count each eyelash that brushes against Nerissa's cheeks. She whispers, "I'm dead serious. You have to put it back."

Faith laughs and it explodes from her lungs. She leans against the wall to steady yourself. "No, no way in _hell_ you're doing this right now. This is _it_, Nerissa! This is the chance we've been _waiting_ for!"

"And what if Georgie finds out!" Nerissa's eyes are the color a fluid in a septic tank. Her lips purse into a thin line as she says, "We can't have freedom if we're dead, Faith!"

Faith won't cry. She refuses; she swallows until the lump in her throat works its way down her collarbone where it just sits there like a stone. "You've changed your mind?"

Nerissa looks down and speaks to the weeds sprouting from between jagged cracks in the sidewalk. She says, "I told you before I'm content."

Faith's hand slaps against the wall so hard she feels the bones creak in protest. "You're_ not_ doing this to me! Nerissa, we've got a shot at a new life! A _better_ one! We can't just throw it away!"

Nerissa's head snaps up, and her eyes are sharp like broken glass. "Don't you get it? I'm afraid! I'm _so afraid_! I can't risk my neck over something like this. I love you Faith; I _want_ us to be happy! But the Crooked Man rules here! This is the _Crooked Man's_ town!"

Faith reaches out before she can stop herself. Her fingers dig into Nerissa's arm, and she chooses to disregard Nerissa's whimper by getting angry. So angry she grinds her teeth and little spots blossom in the corner of her vision. She pulls Nerissa close, close enough to kiss her traitorous, beautiful mouth, and she growls into her ear, "_Fuck you_. I'm not going to _become_ smoke."

She whirls away and doesn't hear Nerissa drop to her knees. She _doesn't_ hear Nerissa crying; she _doesn't_ hear Nerissa begging her to come back. She _doesn't_.

Until she does, and when she's alone in the apartment with its four peeling walls and sink full of dirty dishes, she allows herself to cry.

* * *

She makes love to Lawrence because she feels like she owes him that much. He's given her wonderful years, but memories aren't enough anymore. They're not enough to get her out of the shit predicament that she's in; they're not enough to save her life if the Georgie finds out—if the Crooked Man finds out.

She rides him until his tosses his head back and seizes up. He grabs desperately at her hips, kisses her neck and she hates herself for wanting to leave him. But the day he came to her rescue, the day she married him, the day they stood on a balcony overlooking a flourishing kingdom—those days are long gone, lost in the shadow of cockroaches and the Crooked Man.

She kisses him while he sleeps and she apologizes over and over again.

Just as she's pulling on a t-shirt that isn't stained or slick with something unidentifiable, the phone rings. She thinks about not-answering it until she does. Nerissa speaks before she can who it is.

"Listen," Nerissa says, her voice broken by static. "Don't say anything, just listen. We don't have much time. Georgie was going to call you, but I told him I'd do it. Meet me in the back alley. You know where."

She hangs up, and the dial tone rings in Faith's hear like a monitor displaying a flat line.

* * *

Nerissa is sitting on the crate in the alley. She looks like a wreck, exhausted and half-dead. When she sees Faith, she shoots up and runs to her. Her hands clamp down on Faith's shoulders like powerful vices, and she pushes Faith up into a corner

Faith grunts as her back comes into contact with hard brick damp with Faith-didn't-want-to-know. "What the hell, Nerissa?"

"Shh," Nerissa hisses and her eyes dark up to the entrance as a car zooms past, ignorant of their meeting. "Listen, I don't have much time. I told Georgie you had the photo."

Faith opens her mouth to scream, to cry; but before she can, Nerissa clamps her hand over Faith's mouth. Faith can taste the salt of her tears, her lotion, her perfume. Nerissa's pupils have swallowed her iris; twin pools of black rimmed with dark amber stare into Faith's face. They're wet with tears and fear, red veins splattered across eggshell colored orbs.

Nerissa says, "I have an idea. I got a glamour. You don't need to know from who. It'll let us switch appearances. I'll take the fall."

Nerissa drops her hand and Faith can only muster a quiet, "_Why_?"

That's when Nerissa kisses her, brief and hard and all wet lips that taste like salt. Faith doesn't even get to kiss her back. She pulls away and turns around in a spray of auburn hair. She moves back over to the crate, rips off the top and throws it against the wall. She roots through what looks like soggy newspaper and beer bottles past expiration date and retrieves what looks like fish-shaped broaches. They're small, so small it's ridiculous how small they are.

Nerissa spins back around and reaches towards Faith's throat. Faith tenses but Nerissa's hands are careful and gentle as she fastens the pin underneath the knot of the bow. She does the same to her own ribbon. When she's done, she sighs wet and heavy.

She says, "I don't want you to live like smoke just because I'm content with it. With this, I can be free."

"Please," Faith says and she sounds broken down, "_please _don't fucking do this. We were supposed to leave together."

Nerissa hugs her, pulls Faith so hard up against her chest Faith can feel Nerissa's heart beating against her breast. Nerissa kisses Faith's cheek, and Faith can smell the fragile smile against her skin. Nerissa speaks without sound, but Faith can make out the words being pressed into her neck.

"Live for both of us."

* * *

Faith watches as her head (Nerissa's head) rolls across the floor, watches as Georgie idly fondles the ribbon, watches Vivian not watching them. She stares into her own dead eyes and remembers Nerissa's eyes—the honey-brown softness, the amber colored that bloomed whenever she was afraid.

Faith with Nerissa's mouth screams and screams until Vivian pulls her out of the room.

* * *

Faith can see the kindness in Bigby's eyes, the struggle to rise up to the occasion, to be something everyone thinks he can't be. She kisses his cheek, tells him she'll see him later (calls him Wolf to be playful) and thinks, _This is it. This is how we can be free_.

She takes Nerissa's head and leaves it at his door step, gets the ribbon from the trash and fixes it up.

When she jumps the fence, she can taste the sea in her mouth.


End file.
